


If You Don't Know Me By Now

by labelladonna99



Series: We were wrecks before we crashed into each other (Wall Verse) [2]
Category: Heroes (TV)
Genre: Angst, Episode: s04e17 The Wall, Frenemies, Heroes: Volume 4, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-28
Updated: 2017-06-28
Packaged: 2018-11-20 16:19:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11338986
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/labelladonna99/pseuds/labelladonna99
Summary: Peter and Sylar struggle to get along and get to know one another without triggering suspicion and fights.





	If You Don't Know Me By Now

Peter wandered the fluorescent lit aisles of the toy store fascinated by the abundant variety of playthings on display. Had there always been so many kinds of toys? Even by the standards of his privileged childhood, the choices were overwhelming. Baby dolls stared back at him with impassive innocence and fashion dolls posed coquettishly in their sparkly evening gowns.

Trailed by the only other inhabitant of this silent and empty world, Peter strolled past life-size dolls and tiny miniatures, dolls whose sole appeal seemed to be their deliberate ugliness, and a whole other category of superhero and action-movie dolls. He knew that the Spider Man, Superman and Batman figures weren’t called dolls. They were action figures. Since there were no children here to correct him, his terminology would stand. The existence of a toy store in a world without children was just another of the many oddities of his bizarre predicament.

“Tell me why we’re in the doll section, Peter,” Sylar drawled from behind him. “You won’t find any blow-up dolls here.”

“You would know, Sylar.” Peter answered without turning around. “Three years alone. What did you do to pass the time?”

Sylar made a “hmmf” sound.

Moving on from dolls, the two men traveled past shelves piled with toy cars, trucks, boats, airplanes, rockets, motorcycles, helicopters and rescue vehicles and then it was on to building toys - legos, magnetix, tinker toys. The store was immense, much larger than Peter remembered it having been in real life. The ferris wheel near the entrance and the ten foot lego models of Godzilla and the Statue of Liberty matched his memoríes.

It was easy to forget the dreary day outside in the brightness of the cavernous building. It had been raining for nearly a week. The entire month had been a string of stormy weather interrupted by a day or two of clear skies before clouds rolled in once more. Peter could pound at the wall in the rain but working with water dripping into his eyes and the wet handle of the sledgehammer slipping against his skin and giving him blisters proved more aggravating than his usual fruitless hours of labor.

Entertainment was limited in the deserted city that Peter and Sylar now called home, for lack of a better word. There was nothing to watch except one another. No concerts, movies or TV, no theater or sporting events. The streets were empty of cars, bicycles and skateboards and the only vehicles they’d found were rowboats in the park. In two and a half years, they had slammed hundreds of baseballs across Central Park’s Great Lawn, swam endless watery laps in a nearby rooftop pool, stung their hands playing hours of handball and bought and sold more hotels than the Hiltons during far too many plodding games of Monopoly. Peter was so mind-numbingly tired of Monopoly. Hence this trip to the toy store.

“What exactly are we looking for?” Sylar had come alongside of Peter and was scanning the shelves with alert brown eyes that missed nothing.

In the board game aisle Peter stopped to look over the hundreds of selections. “I don’t know. Just something different to do before we go insane from boredom.”

Sylar’s footsteps thudded softly as he approached the shelf with his long-legged stride. “Well, there’s always the obvious,” he threw out with casual indifference. His fingers rifled the boxes stacked near his eye level.  
  
Peter tracked the movement of the taller man’s hand across the shelf. The brand new board games in their shiny plastic sheaths gave off a peculiar, not unpleasant smell that reminded him of Christmas morning and unwrapping presents. “Yeah? Like what?” Peter glanced over at Sylar.

With a wordless smirk, Sylar raised an eyebrow in blatant invitation. _Ugh_. Peter shook his head. He’d stumbled right into the guy’s trap. Stepping away, he refocused on finding what he had come here for while Sylar laughed with mean-spirited glee. “You’re so gullible, Petrelli. That’s what makes you such fun to play with.”

Peter ignored the jab. He didn’t need any reminders of his failings. Two and a half years trapped with Sylar and he still hadn’t convinced the man to help rescue Emma and the people at the carnival, nor had he made a single dent in the damned wall. He’d gotten himself into this mess with his stubborn faith in a prophetic dream and his belief in second-chances, even for a consummate jerk like Sylar.

Peter pulled a rectangular black box from the shelf and held it up for Sylar’s perusal. “This game has your name all over it.”

“Cards Against Humanity. Is that supposed to be an insult?” Sylar rolled his eyes. “Fine, this one is about right for your level of maturity.” He flung a box at Peter. Caught off guard, Peter bobbled but didn’t drop the game. It was Candyland.

“Oh man, I used to love this game!” Peter reached for the canvas bag that he’d folded and stuffed in his pocket earlier, and slid the box into it. “I’m taking this one just for the nostalgia value.” He grinned, hoping to wind down the snarkfest before it spiraled into a fight. Peter wasn’t afraid of Sylar, not anymore. He was weary of fighting. It didn’t solve anything and even when he won, he didn’t walk away unscathed. Even though they battled with words now more than fists, they still did damage. Words could hurt more than blows, an unfortunate fact Peter had learned from his family. He shouldn’t care about the rancid opinions of the man who had killed his brother. Yet Sylar’s ridicule did wound him. He was sure his own angry taunts had made their mark on Sylar, too, for all the man’s swaggering bravado.

The Candyland game secure in his canvas bag, Peter returned his attention to the piles of boxes on the shelves surrounding him.

“You’re really taking Candyland?” Sylar’s mouth twitched and crinkles formed in the corners of his eyes. ”You are so weird.”

“Yeah, I am. I’m weird and gullible and all the other insults you’re always hurling at me. You keep hanging around so you must like me.” Peter flashed Sylar his million dollar crooked smile and the other man smothered the grin that tried to appear on his face in return.

Sylar was such a complicated guy, too proud to admit to the most basic of human feelings while at other times he laid himself bare, vulnerabilities exposed like a jugular vein waiting to be sliced open. Peter gave him a friendly slap on the back of his shoulder that earned no reaction.

“C’mon, help me find something here that we can play. Trivial Pursuit? Run Fight or Die?” In the past, Sylar would stiffen when Peter playfully slapped or shoved him. He still didn’t know how to play without explicit rules but at least he had learned the difference between rough-housing and real aggression.

  
“Oh, wait. Check this out. I’ve always wanted one of these.” Peter reached between a stack of games to retrieve a box that held a ouija board.

“You’re kidding, right? You don’t need a ouija board to know that Justin Bieber won’t marry you. You’re not his type. Anyway, neither of us has hair long enough to braid and you know you can never stay up past midnight. Pick something that isn't for pre-teen girls.”

“What are you talking about, Sylar? Have you ever even used a ouija board? It's not just a kid’s game.”

“No, I’ve never used one. It wouldn’t have gone over well in my house. My mother would have burned it. And had me exorcised.” A quiet, scoffing laugh escaped the former killer. “Come to think of it, maybe she should have.” His gaze was distant and a sad expression flitted across his face, the same way he had looked the only other time he had talked about his mother. Sylar composed his remarkably mobile face that communicated more with small movements than most people did with words. It was a striking, unconventional face.

Peter hadn’t given much thought to the watchmaker’s attractiveness when they had been killing each other. Nor were Sylar’s looks on Peter’s mind when he had arrived here intent on jailbreak only to spend the next year ramming his fists into the man who could provoke him like no other. That had changed. Peter had begun checking the guy out, especially during those infrequent times when Sylar let his guard down and relaxed. Sometimes Peter saw glimmers of a man he might like if Sylar didn’t so often brandish his knife-edged wit and wicked intelligence as weapons. What would it take to crack that brittle exterior and coax the real person out into the light?

Shaking off his daydream, Peter decided to take the ouija board. Sylar needed to chill out. Maybe the game would help. They had tried talking. Every topic was littered with landmines and there was no tell-tale pattern to the man’s mercurial moods that Peter could interpret and navigate around. Innocent conversations veered off course, devolving into condescension and insults. Sylar questioned Peter’s motives and accused him of manipulation. Trying to get past the serial killer’s facade skirted the edge of danger and on many occasions plunged them into the abyss. Convincing Sylar to play would be another matter but the worst that could happen is that he simply wouldn’t. Peter grabbed another game. “Hive,” it said on the box, describing the game as similar to chess without a board. Sylar liked chess so maybe Hive would please him.

“Why don’t you pick something you want to play, Sylar, since you don’t seem to like my choices.”

“That Hive game looks fine,” Sylar said. “If it keeps raining like this we might be better off building a damn ark.”  He snatched the deluxe edition of Scrabble, stuffed it into his backpack and clapped Peter on the arm. “Ready to leave? I’m starved.”

***

 

As Murphy’s Law would have it, the games were forgotten when the next day dawned bright and sunny. The wall awaited Peter once more, taunting him with its smooth impermeable surface. It would crumble, eventually. It had to. For the next five days, Peter sweated under a warm spring sun. He broke away from the wall only to eat, sleep and play his guitar. Sylar took a few turns at the wall, stripping down to his t-shirt after the first hour. Peter observed the way the shirt clung to Sylar’s lean muscles and how his low slung jeans hung on his slim hips.

“What?” Sylar had asked once, detecting Peter’s scrutiny and looking down at himself as if expecting to see something that didn’t belong.

“Nothing.” Peter directed his eyes back where they belonged, facing the unyielding bricks in front of him. “I’m just glad you’re helping. Thank you.”

“It won’t do any good. And I’m not going to spend twelve hours a day here, the way you do.”

“That’s fine.” Peter hefted the sledgehammer for what had to be the millionth time. “Some company is better than none.”

On the sixth day, Sylar tried to lure Peter away from the wall.

“Nah man, I’ve already missed so many days from all the rain.”

“It’s not like you’re making any progress, Peter. Nothing ever changes.” It was Sylar’s familiar lament.

“You’re wrong, Sylar. Maybe we can’t see it yet, but I feel it. We’re getting closer. I know it.”

“I’ll play Candyland with you next time it rains,” Sylar wheedled.

Peter laughed. “I didn’t get it to play. I just wanted to have it.”

“The other game, then. The ouija board.”

Peter hit the wall a few more times. Sighing, he lowered the sledgehammer’s blade to the ground, leaning on it while he caught his breath. “Okay, what did you have in mind?”

“I’m hungry. And I’m tired of sandwiches.”

“You’re always hungry.” Peter laid the sledgehammer down and wiped his hands on the towel he’d left at the base of the wall.

“That’s true.” Sylar let his gaze fall to linger on Peter’s ass. “In more ways than one.”

***

The gorgeous spring weather couldn't last and on the seventh day, the sky dumped rain in heavy torrents. Powerful gusts of wind blew Peter’s flimsy umbrella inside out during the short walk to Sylar’s apartment that morning. By the time he arrived, the umbrella’s spokes were bent and the fabric torn. Peter tossed it in the trashcan on the ground floor of Sylar’s building and headed upstairs. The first thing he noticed after Sylar answered his knock was the smell of coffee and something toasty. Two bagels lay on small plates on the kitchen counter. Not long ago, Sylar had gotten into the habit of making breakfast for Peter. It was a strangely sweet gesture.

They began their rainy day marathon with Scrabble, followed by the new Hive game. Peter had guessed correctly; Sylar liked it. The game was elegant, lending itself to complex strategy despite its simple rules. The bonus for Peter was that Hive didn’t go on forever like some chess matches could. Sylar won three times in a row and they were both enjoying the game so they continued. It was addictive.

“Tell me about the ouija board game,” Sylar demanded while waiting for Peter to make a move in their fourth round of Hive.

“I played it with my roommates in college,” Peter said, placing one of his insect tiles on the coffee table.. “It’s mostly hilarious, sometimes spooky.”

“Spooky?” Sylar tilted his head. “You do know it’s the people playing who make the contraption move?”

“Of course but it’s kinda weird. You know it’s just you moving it but you could swear you’re not and you don’t necessarily get the answers you expect. You’ll see, it’s fun.”

Peter tore open the packaging and set the ouija board and the planchette on the coffee table. “You’re supposed to play with part of the board resting on each player’s knees.” Peter gestured for Sylar to leave his chair opposite the coffee table and take a seat on the couch beside him. “I guess it’s to keep you from pressing too hard on the thing that moves around. You just lay your fingertips on it.”

They settled in, knees almost touching as they angled their bodies to face one another and arranged the board between them. Sylar’s unwavering gaze tracked every movement.

“So now we just ask it stuff,” Peter explained.  “Start out with basic questions that you already know the answer to. Like your name or your age. Something like that. Oh, um, did you want to see the rules of what never to do? Y’know, about how not to tempt the evil spirits.” He widened his eyes in mock terror.

“I’m not worried about evil spirits. I’m the only demon here,” Sylar said. Peter knew that wasn’t true. He had learned not to underestimate what anyone was capable of under the right, or wrong, circumstances.

“Ok so we’re supposed to move this gadget around first, to get used to it.” Peter rested his fingers on the planchette, motioning for Sylar to do the same. They slid it around the board for a few seconds. “I’ll go first,” Peter said and then addressed the board. “Is there someone here?”

Sylar rolled his eyes. “Really, Peter? Cut the mystical crap.”

Peter’s mouth twitched in a sideways grin. “You’re no fun, Sylar. You need to relax. You have a death grip on this thing. Take a breath. Crack your neck or something.”

Sylar lifted his fingers, curling and stretching a few times before resting them on the planchette again, this time with less weight. “My turn?”

Peter nodded.

“Who’s here with me?” Sylar asked.

Nothing happened. Sylar glared at Peter as if the inaction were his fault.

“That happens sometimes,” Peter said. “We have to warm up. Try again.”

Sylar rephrased his question. “Who is the guy sitting across from me?” The planchette began its slow journey across the board. Sylar’s head snapped up to stare at Peter. “Are you doing that?”

“We both are.” Peter suppressed a smirk. So much for not being worried about evil spirits.

The planchette pointed at the letters P, E, T, E and stopped. PETE. “Hmm,” was all Sylar said while Peter raised an eyebrow at the use of Nathan’s nickname for him.

“If Sylar were a superhero, which one would he be?” Peter asked several turns later. The planchette spelled out Batman. Of course. Dark and complicated, just like Sylar.

“Your questions are boring me to death, Petrelli.”

Peter laughed. “Go ahead and ask one of your own.”

“Does Peter jerk off?” Peter closed his eyes and shook his head. He had expected Sylar to ask questions like this. It was par for the man’s rude and sophomoric course. Peter and Sylar burst out laughing when the planchette completed its circuit of the board’s alphabet to spell out an answer, instead of simply pointing to yes or no: OFTEN.

Putting aside the game after a few more questions, they migrated into the kitchen in search of lunch. Sylar took up his book after they had eaten, content as a cat sprawled on the couch with his long legs hogging all the space. Unable to locate the book he had abandoned after the last spate of bad weather had cleared, Peter stepped over to the bookshelf and found it returned to its original spot. Of course. Sylar the neat freak couldn’t have just left it lying around; he’d had to re-shelve it. Peter sat in a chair opposite the couch and and wished the coffee table were an ottoman. He began to read and soon drifted off to the rhythmic, drowsy sound of raindrops spattering against the building. When he opened his eyes, Sylar was seated upright with the ouija board on his lap and his hands on the planchette.

“Does it work if it’s only one person?” Sylar didn’t look up, somehow knowing Peter was awake almost before Peter knew it himself.

“I’ve never tried it. You have questions for yourself?” Peter laughed.

“Oh yes,” Sylar murmured. “Lots of them.”

***

The endless rain that had marked the early weeks of spring gave way to balmier weather and the lengthening spring days meant more hours at the wall. Sometimes Sylar joined him. Peter assumed that when the other man was absent, he was tinkering with his timepieces. He had very little idea of what Sylar did when they weren’t together. He supposed Sylar could have said the same about him if not for the wall. They ate dinner late because Peter hammered at the wall during every available second of daylight, and they spent their evenings rotating through puzzles, cards and board games. Peter played the guitar most nights and sometimes they teamed up to jam. When Sylar would allow it and tolerated having his mistakes corrected, Peter taught him more songs.

Sylar was greedy for Peter’s companionship but his way of showing appreciation was, well, to not show it. It had been months since they’d had an all out fist fight though they sniped at each other daily, and it was a rare week that went by without a shouting match, occasional shoving and exhortations to fuck off.

“I’m wiped out,” Peter said after a long, hot day of pounding brick. He wasn’t sure, but he thought it was May. It felt like July. “I’m going back to my place to shower and go to bed early.”

Sylar glared at him. “You could try being less of a workaholic. You get that from dad.”

Peter rarely minded anymore when Sylar slipped into Nathan’s memories. It wasn’t deliberate so he chose to ignore it. Sylar glowered when Peter told stories of his past in which Nathan had played a part and he flinched at the sound of Nathan’s name, but he stayed quiet. They were making progress. A snail could have circumnavigated the globe faster but Peter had always been one to grasp at straws. These small signs fortified his hope that they could somehow forge an alliance.

“I know it bugs you when I don’t hang out with you, but you don’t own me. I don’t owe you the pleasure of my company,” Peter returned the sledgehammer to its usual resting place near the wall.

“Who said it was a pleasure?” Sylar scoffed.

Peter shrugged one shoulder. “If it’s not, you don’t need to spend time with me at all.” He sauntered away to the sound of Sylar muttering under his breath. It was obnoxious and irritating, but it, too, was a tiny seed of change floating on a breeze. In the past, Sylar would have provoked Peter to the point of blows to avoid the separation. It never worked; after a fight Peter needed more, not less time away from the irascible watchmaker.

When Peter arrived at the wall the next morning, Sylar was already there with a book and a thermos. “Morning,” Peter greeted him. “How’d you sleep.”

“Fine. You?”

“Not bad. I crashed as soon as I got home. I never even took that shower.” Peter bent to pick up the sledgehammer and swung it slowly a few times to stretch out his back.

“You must have needed the rest.” Sylar flicked his eyes at Peter and went back to his book, reading silently and drinking from his thermos. He hadn’t brought anything for Peter, no coffee, no breakfast. Peter wasn’t going to ask. He didn’t need Sylar to feed him. Over the last few months it had become a routine that Sylar brought breakfast to the wall and Peter had come to expect it. _Spiteful jerk_. Peter made a mental note to break early for lunch.

The sun peeking through the blinds woke Peter the following morning. By the time he was dressed and ready to leave his apartment, the sky had darkened and thick gray clouds were gathering. He headed for Sylar’s place instead of the wall because that was where they hung out when bad weather kept them indoors. He wondered if Sylar was still nursing his grudge.

Peter smelled waffles when he entered Sylar’s apartment after knocking and being invited in.

“What do you want to do today? Looks like crappy weather.” Peter poured syrup over his waffles and took a seat at the table, across from Sylar. “Thanks for the breakfast.”

“It’s just a thunderstorm. It’ll probably clear up. But we could play a game while you wait. Monopoly, Scrabble, Hive or ouija board?” Sylar’s matter-of-fact tone was about as friendly as the guy ever got.

“Not Monopoly. That needs to go on permanent hiatus.”

“Ouija board, then.”

“Ok, great.”

The key was keeping Sylar busy. When they spent their time in aimless conversation, there were too many topics that triggered Sylar’s anger and paranoia. Peter still wanted answers but he had to nibble around the edges of the things he hankered to understand. He had tried asking directly and it always wound down to arguments and fist fights. Now Peter was improvising how to paint over their old images of one another. Games and activities were a canvas on which to layer new experiences and shared memories that weren’t fraught with killing and betrayal, something to talk about besides the past and how they had hurt each other. As proof that this approach was paying dividends, Sylar’s nightmares had diminished.

“Why is Peter angry with me?” Sylar asked as soon as they’d set up the ouija board.

Peter furrowed his brow. They had never used the board this way. It was a diversion, a way to make conversation fun and easy, not a therapy session.

“First of all, I am not angry. I mean, y’know, not about anything recent.” Peter corrected.

“Second -”

“Shut up, Peter. I didn’t ask you. I’m asking the board.”  
  
“You can’t ask it a question like that. It’s too complex.”

“How should I ask it?”

“Sylar, why can’t you just ask _me_?” Peter leaned forward and grasped Sylar’s shoulder. “I’m right here.” The ouija board teetered between them.

Sylar batted Peter’s hand away. “Because it’s a simple question and your answers are never simple. You talk about your feelings and you don’t make sense.”

“You want to know why I’m angry, right? I’m not. I was tired. It had nothing to do with you.”

Sylar’s voice had been rising with each statement and by now he was yelling. “It has everything to do with me if we’re the only two people here and you spend fourteen hours a day hitting a brick wall for no good reason until you’re practically dead.”

Listening to Sylar shout at him was nothing new. It didn’t get any less stressful no matter how often it happened. Spending time with Sylar taxed every reserve of Peter’s endurance.  The alternative was worse - an eternity alone with no hope of getting out, no way to fulfill his mission. Sometimes, when they were able to pass a few hours without a cross word or insult, Peter almost thought of Sylar as a friend. He was witty, smart. Sylar was knowledgeable about all kinds of arcane subjects and he liked to show off his command of useless trivia. He tolerated Peter’s care of his bumps and bruises and, in return, was solicitous of Peter’s long hours toiling at the wall. He brought him sandwiches and water, read to him, picked up the sledgehammer and commanded Peter to rest.  
  
“Why does it bother you so much? I'm trying to get us out of here which is more than I can say for you.”

“I know futility when I see it.”

Peter tilted his head in a gesture of nonchalance. “Then the worst that can happen is I'd be wasting my time. I still don't know why it matters to you. Are you afraid I'm literally going to die of exhaustion? I'm pretty fit, Sylar.”  
  
“I'm not afraid of anything,” the taller man sneered. “You should know that. And yes you are ridiculously fit. But there are other things you could be doing with that body.” His gaze roamed over Peter in a leisurely circuit that gave new meaning to the expression eye-fucking. It felt like being touched. Caressed. It was like having fingers teasing and hands stroking everywhere, with delicious urgency. Peter sensed that Sylar was challenging him and he didn't know how he was going to back out of this one because he wanted those hands on him for real. If he didn’t know that abilities didn’t work here, he could easily imagine that Sylar was using telekinesis on him and that thought was even more arousing. And then whatever it was that Sylar was doing stopped. He changed the subject leaving Peter bereft.

It had galled Peter tin the early weeks of their captivity together how the man could be splitting his lip in one instant and desiring him in the next. Sylar’s approach then had fit a textbook definition of sexual harassment. Peter would give him one thing, Sylar did learn from his mistakes; he had changed his tactics to suit Peter’s sensibilities. He had still acted like Peter owed him something but over time, it had become more like an invitation. After they had gotten the guitars, Sylar’s approach softened even more. His passes took the form of off-hand comments that were like an inside joke between them. They were acting out predefined roles and Sylar knew his part was to make hopeless overtures and Peter’s to refuse.

Sylar was playing by Peter’s rules. He took no for an answer. He backed off. Peter didn’t know if the music itself was the pivotal point as he recalled a line from his college philosophy class:   _music is the movement of sound to reach the soul for the education of its virtue_. Did hearing music for the first time in years touch Sylar’s soul? Or was sharing an activity and the teamwork involved in playing music together what had made Sylar more pliable? Either way, having his boundaries respected most of the time made Peter more forgiving when they were crossed. When he caught Sylar surveying him with hunger in his eyes, Peter sometimes looked back. It was flirty. Harmless. Fun. What Sylar had been doing just now had been none of those. That had been going somewhere and Peter had no idea what had changed Sylar's mind. A part of him was disappointed. Multiple parts, in fact. Maybe he did need a blow-up doll.

***

“Is Sylar ever going to get married?” Peter asked the ouija board the next time they played. An impish grin played about his mouth. It was raining again, and the screeching wind outside was rattling the apartment’s windows. They could hardly complain after enjoying a spell of perfect spring weather. Even Peter hadn’t been able to resist the temptation to forgo his endless wall-pounding to spend a few days roaming the city and playing in the park.

“That’s a stupid question, Peter. I don’t think I’m the marrying kind. And anyway, who would I marry when there are only the two of us here? Unless you think I’m going to marry _you_?” Contempt flavored his voice, underscored by the arch of his formidable eyebrows.

Peter ignored the implied insult. Not that long ago Sylar had, in fact, suggested that Peter marry him or, at least move into his apartment. But why bring that up now? “We’re not going to be here forever, Sylar. We are going to get out.”

“So you’ve said, many times, and look, we’re still here. Ask a different question.”

“Fine.” Peter exhaled a short, sharp breath. “Is Sylar going to kill me when he gets out of here and has all his powers back?” He wanted to get under Sylar’s skin for the way the man had been pushing his buttons all day and it was also a question he wanted answered.

“What kind of question is that?” Sylar clenched his jaw. “I haven’t laid a hand on you in ages, I fucking feed you every day and make sure you don’t cut your own stupid head off with that damn sledgehammer when you’re too tired to think straight. And you still think I’m going to kill you?”

“I don’t know. Half the time you act like you can’t stand me.”

“What about the other half?” Sylar challenged.

Peter rolled his eyes. “Then you just want me to be your sex toy.”

“Like you’re so innocent. Have I offended your virtue by putting my filthy killer’s hands on you?” Sylar asked with silky sarcasm. “You get all hot under the collar when I even look at you. You want it just as much as I do, you hypocrite, but you think you’re too pure and heroic to get it on with the likes of me. Never mind what your brother, the senator, might think of it.”

“Leave my brother out of it. He’s dead, remember? You killed him.” Peter crossed his arms, his body rigid with tension.

“Oh, so we’re back to that. It’s been awhile since you’ve brought it up, maybe you thought I’d forgotten my crimes.”

“No, we’re not _back_ to that, you asshole. We’ve never left it. We’re still right where we started. Just because I don’t talk about it every day doesn’t mean I’ve let you off the hook. You kill people. I’m trying to co-exist with you because I don’t have any other options. At least not until we get out of here.” Peter felt heat rising from within and didn’t care that he was winding Sylar up now instead of trying to keep him calm.

“Right. And then you can wash me right out of your hair. Unless I agree to help you with your rescue mission. Then you can dump me after that. Isn’t that how it works?” Sylar sneered.

“For God’s sake, Sylar, what is it with you? You’ve been poking at me all day like I’ve done something wrong to you. I do things for you, too. I’ve slept on this lumpy couch when you were having nightmares. I take care of you when you’re injured or sick. There's no goddamn quid pro quo. You’ve made it clear you’re not helping me with the carnival and I’m here anyway. You and I, we’re all we’ve got. So just lay off.”

“Fine.” Sylar let out a long-suffering breath and the visible signs of anger subsided. The vertical crease between his eyebrows remained but at least his eyes were no longer pinning Peter for the metaphorical kill.

“Fine.” Peter mimicked.

“Ask another question.”

“No. Ask one yourself.”

Sylar studied Peter the way a mechanic might view an engine in need of repair. Dropping his eyes to the board, he asked: “Does Peter need a snack?”

A ghost of a smile danced on Peter’s lips. He pushed the planchette to YES.

“That’s cheating.” Sylar objected though his eyes narrowed in amusement.

“I know but I’m hungry.”

“That’s my line.”

“Well, it’s a good one.”

“Okay, Peter.” Sylar slid the board off his lap. “I’ll feed you.” In Sylar’s wake, Peter heard cabinets opening and closing in the kitchen, the sound of objects clanking against the counter and the rustling of cellophane. Sylar returned with a plate of grapes, cheddar cheese and crackers and a knife to slice the cheese, two glasses of water that he held against his chest and a roll of paper towels under one arm. Peter took the plate from him and laid it on the coffee table while Sylar put the other items down. He kept his amusement to himself about the knife. Here he was, seated close enough to knock knees with a de-powered killer who had put the murderous moves on him many times, a guy whose temper could go off faster than horses at the starting gate of the Kentucky Derby. And there was a knife, within easy reach of either of them.

“You think of everything,” Peter said, smiling with his eyes.

Sylar blinked. “I think that’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

“That’s pretty lame, huh? I guess I should try harder.”

“Hmm,” was the taller man’s cryptic response.

They munched on the fruit, cold and sweet, and savored the crunchy crackers and sharp cheese in silence, studiously avoiding conversation or eye contact after their earlier verbal scuffle. It was times like this when a working television would be valuable. When the plate was empty, they wiped their hands clean on the paper towels and Sylar carried the plate, drinking glass and napkins back to the kitchen.

Returning to the couch, Sylar looked at the ouija board and glanced at Peter.

“Do you still want to play?”

“I don’t know.” Peter’s serious eyes appraised his companion. “It feels like we’re treading on dangerous territory.”

“What’s the worst that can happen?” Sylar asked as if they hadn’t had a long and bloody history of violence towards one another.

“You piss me off and I punch your lights out.”

“So? You’ve done it before.”

“I don’t want to do it anymore,” Peter said. “It just makes things worse. Maybe you could try not to provoke me?”

“Don’t ask for promises you know I can’t keep,” Sylar muttered.

“Right.” Peter inhaled and let the air escape in slow beats. He rubbed his hands on his jean clad thighs a few times and rested his fingers on the planchette once more. “What could Sylar and I do to get along better?”

Sylar narrowed his eyes in suspicion and grumbled under his breath. It sounded dirty. Peter snorted, more at himself than Sylar. That was a dumb question.

The planchette drifted across the board weightlessly, pointing to the letters. T, R, U, S, T.  Peter gazed up at Sylar with his head cocked to one side. Sylar raised both eyebrows, as surprised as Peter was. “Is that true?” Peter asked.  Sylar shrugged. “The ouija board says it is.”

The oddness of that statement echoed in Peter’s mind. Sylar knew the answers came from them, not some invisible third-party. “Your turn,” he told his game partner.

“Turnabout is fair play, Petrelli.” Sylar sneered. “Since we’re asking difficult questions, what would make sex possible between Peter and me?”

Now it was Peter’s turn to mutter. “I guess I deserved that.”

The planchette spelled out the letters S, A, M, E. “Huh,” said Sylar. “I suppose that makes us even.”

“Yeah.” Peter breathed out. What should his next question be? He hadn’t intended to use the board this way when he’d chosen it weeks ago at the toy store. He wanted to learn about Sylar in a way that was safe for both of them, without the conversations that too often went off on troublesome tangents. Before, Peter had used his turns to ask about innocuous things -  likes, dislikes, interests, childhood wishes and fantasies. The goal had been the same, to build a foundation so that they could eventually talk about the things that mattered. This was a tantalizing short-cut, but the path was strewn with jagged boulders. Peter didn’t want to get cut; he’d had enough of blood. In true Peter Petrelli fashion, he leapt forward anyway.

“If we had Hiro’s time-traveling power, what could we do to fix...this?” Peter waved both hands to indicate the barren world and their situation. He held his breath, waiting to see if Sylar would erupt in anger. Sylar lifted his head to meet Peter’s eyes, his expression guarded. His fingers didn’t move from the planchette. Seconds ticked by and the planchette remained still.

“It’s okay, Sylar,” Peter said. “We can skip that question if you want.” He was prepared to lift his fingers from the planchette when Sylar laid his left hand on top of Peter’s.

“No, it’s fine. I’d like to know the answer, too.” Sylar returned his fingers to the planchette and they waited for it to move. When it did, it spelled out Sylar’s name.

Peter avoided Sylar’s eyes because he knew the other man would read his sympathy as pity.

“Does that mean you’re sorry - for any of it?” he asked quietly.

Sylar sighed and now he did remove his hands from the game to run them through his hair, each hand in turn and then repeating the sequence. The compulsive movement caught Peter’s attention as he glanced up from under his brows before looking away.

“I know what I’m supposed to say,” Sylar answered softly and Peter caught the resignation in his voice. Sylar didn’t want to be talking about this and Peter appreciated the effort the other man was making. “I would be lying if I said yes. It’s not easy to explain but I did what I had to do, what I knew _how_ to do. It felt like survival. I don’t know how to feel remorse. It’s not like there’s a set of instructions that I can give you. ‘Do these things, Peter, and that will unlock the mystery of how to make me feel something I don’t feel.’ It’s like forgiveness. Remorse is - I understand the concept but it’s too abstract. If I could change things, I would, but I think I’d have to start at the beginning, like the ouija board said. Erase myself. It doesn’t mean I feel what you want me to.”  
  
Peter lifted his head and he saw that Sylar’s eyes were on him, waiting for an answer. Or absolution. Peter couldn’t give him that so he nodded several times, as if he understood. The truth was that none of it made sense. Sylar was an enigma. He said he’d change everything. What he meant was if he had never existed then none of it would have happened. That wasn’t quite good enough. It was dodging responsibility. He did exist and he had done all of the terrible things he now couldn’t bring himself to even regret. But he _sounded_ sorry. It had hurt to listen to Sylar’s words in that broken voice.

“I don’t quite understand all of that. It sounds honest. That’s a start.”

Sylar sighed. “What would you change, Peter?” A faint wisp of a taunt colored the way he said Peter’s name.

“I think you know the answer to that, Sylar.” Peter met the killer’s eyes for only a second or two before finding other places to rest his gaze.

“Of course. That much is obvious. Your brother.” Sylar said the word ‘brother’ as if he had just discovered dirt in his mouth. “You’d make it so that I was the one who had died. Which you very nearly did.”

Peter chewed the ragged cuticle of his thumb as he scoured his thoughts for what would be truthful. He owed Sylar that much now, while knowing that he had no words to redeem an unrepentant killer.

“I wouldn’t want you erased. I did, when I thought it would bring my brother back. I don’t want that now.” Peter paused, commanding his body to be still so that Sylar wouldn’t misread his apprehension about the topic as insincerity. “I would want my brother to be alive. And the other people that you killed, I would bring them back if I could, or make it so that they’d never died at all. I guess I would change it so that you never had abilities in the first place. Or that you had different ones.”

“Oh fuck you, Peter.” Sylar’s fingers curled into tight fists. “You wouldn’t erase me but you would take away what makes me, me. That’s the same thing. It would have been better if you’d said you would have killed me at Odessa. Or succeeded at Mercy Heights.”

“You’re the one who said you’d erase yourself, not me. Don’t put words in my mouth.” The tight thin line of Peter’s lips matched the emotion flaring in his eyes.

“I didn’t say I wanted that. I said it was the only way to fix what happened. You had the time traveling ability, Peter. I never had that one but I know how it works. We both know there’s only one way to make things right. Don’t think I would be happy to hear you say it. There’s nothing you can say that I would like. I happen to prefer my life, pathetic as it is, to non-existence, and what I expect from you, Mr. Good Guy Hero, is the truth.” The words erupted from Sylar’s mouth like a series of individual explosions. “You want answers from me? At least give me what I gave you.”

“The truth?” Peter’s throat made a low, guttural sound. “Like you’ve been open and honest with me from the start? Every conversation we have is a maze with a three-headed dragon around every turn. I ask you why you killed people and you say you had to. I ask if you’re sorry and you’re not. I ask you to tell me about things that have happened and you keep secrets. Nothing’s changed. And all this?” he waved his hand at the ouija board and the other games. “This playing and dragging me out to the park, feeding me? It’s a game to you, a way to keep me in your fucking lair because you don’t want to be alone and you’re hoping I’m lonely enough to get in bed with you.”

Sylar shot to his feet, upending the ouija board and the planchette, which clattered to the floor. With one long arm, he reached for Peter’s shirt collar and hauled him to his feet, tugging the smaller man close enough for Peter to see the flecks of gold in his irises and capturing Peter’s gaze with his penetrating stare. “Get out,” he said, low and feral, gritting his teeth. “You’ve gotten what you wanted, my confession. That’s what this is all about, isn’t it? You manipulative little prick.” With a sharp shove, he knocked Peter backwards. Peter broke his fall with his hands and landed on his ass. Sylar stared down at him, his dark eyes nearly black from the adrenaline dilating his pupils. As Peter rose to his feet, Sylar aimed a kick at his chest, knocking him backward again.

“You’re gonna have to let me up if you want me to leave, asshole,” said Peter, scooting backward out of Sylar’s range. The old Peter would have charged Sylar and beaten him to a pulp to defend his bruised ego and vent his anger, pain and loss. This Peter, the man who had spent more than two years tangling with a conflicted, confused killer, still had enough fight in him to take Sylar down if he had to. Knowing that he could made it unnecessary. He wasn’t here to prove anything. He was going to leave. He was going to stay as far away as he could from Sylar, for as long as he could manage, because he needed the stress relief. He knew he’d be back. Where else could he go? What else could he do? He would return because as ugly as it all was, they had made headway. Secrets had been spilled, care offered and accepted, favors requested and granted. That had to count for something in this fucked up land of make-believe.

Peter skirted the coffee table, yanked his jacket from the coat tree and stomped out the door as if Sylar didn’t exist, as if he’d already erased him.

***

Sylar’s anger deflated almost as soon as the door slammed behind Peter. He straightened up the room, putting away the game that had led to the confrontation, washing the plate, knife and water glasses they’d used. In a way, he was grateful for the game. The pretense had given them cover to unearth things that wanted to stay buried. For as long as he remembered, he hadn’t been allowed to feel anything and he had forgotten how. Anger was the only emotion that fortified him. It was the channel for everything he couldn’t express and no longer knew how to name -- sadness, regret, envy, loyalty, love, need, fear, trust, the desire for a friend to help him carry the burdens that weighed him down.

He understood now, because he had the best teacher -- the shaggy haired empath with a beautiful face - that the turmoil in his gut wasn’t the result of a bad taco. He was feeling things, all of them at once, reconnecting with a part of himself he thought he had killed. He rolled his eyes at how cheesy his thoughts were. It was embarrassing even though he was alone in this empty room. It hurt. His stomach clenched and an intermittent piercing sensation stabbed at his chest. It was a good kind of pain. It meant that he was still human.

Hours later, Peter knocked on Sylar’s door. It was an odd courtesy, Sylar thought, to knock when you knew the person on the other side of the door couldn’t possibly be expecting anyone else. Sylar hadn’t been expecting Peter, though. Peter took his time cooling off after fights. They had gone weeks ignoring each other in the past and Peter had told Sylar once that he was giving him space. It was space that Sylar didn’t want or need and he knew it wasn’t really for him. It was Peter who needed space and Sylar was always crowding him. Yet here was Peter now, so soon after they’d argued. It was a break in the pattern and that sort of irregularity always intrigued Sylar.

He opened the door to find Peter standing in a puddle, drenched. Little rivers of rain coursed down his face from his streaming hair. No wonder; it had been raining hard for most of the day and Peter hadn’t brought an umbrella.

“Are you going to let me in?” Peter’s voice, always so rich, mellow and deep, was whisper-quiet. He stared up at Sylar like a soggy, naughty puppy.

“Of course, come in.” Sylar grabbed Peter by the wrist, pulling him through the doorway and pointing him to the kitchen where he could drip all over the tile floor. Closing the door behind him, he followed Peter to the kitchen. The EMT’s dark hair was a messy wet mop hanging in his face. Beads of water on his skin caught the light and his clothes were plastered to his body. Sylar gaped at him. He looked like something edible. Delicious. Sylar wanted to kiss that magnificent crooked mouth. He wouldn’t because it would ruin everything.

It was true that Peter hadn’t leapt into the mind-prison for his sake. He, Sylar, was a means to an end. Peter needed him to fulfill his mission with the carnival, to save _other_ people. In the past, Sylar had been infuriated by that. He had felt like a tool, to be used and discarded the way people had always done. Peter thought all he had to do was show up here and ask for Sylar’s help and he would agree. He hadn’t planned on years. Peter hadn’t expected that he would have to redeem the killer. He believed that Sylar would want to help. Maybe that was stupid, or typical of Peter’s failure to plan, but there was more faith in that simple assumption than anyone had ever shown Sylar. How had Sylar not seen that before?

“Sylar?”

“Hm?”

“Do you think I could borrow some clothes?”

“Yes, I’ll get you some things.” Sylar didn’t move.

Peter fidgeted with the cuffs of his jacket. “You were right. I’m sorry. You have every right to be angry with me, Sylar. I didn’t mean to manipulate you. I was doing it anyway. I just...” he looked up and shrugged. “...thought we could talk. You know, just conversation.”  

His hands hung at his sides now and he sounded about as contrite as a person could be. Sylar didn’t need the apology. He knew this man. Still, it was nice to hear.

“You really don’t have any idea, Peter, do you?” he asked softly.

“Of what?”

“Never mind.” Sylar grasped Peter by the shoulders and steered from behind. “Come on.”

“What’re you doing?” Peter tried to look at Sylar over his shoulder but he didn’t shake off the hands that guided him.

“Shh, it’s okay. You need clothes.”

“Sylar, you don’t - .” Sylar cut him off.

“You talk too much. Just shut up for once,” Sylar said gruffly. Peter obeyed.

He maneuvered Peter to a closet, opened the door and flicked on a light switch. A full length mirror was bolted to the inside of the door.

Standing behind Peter, his hands still on the shorter man’s shoulders, Sylar met his eyes in the reflection. “I look like a wet labrador retriever.” Peter laughed. “I’m a goddamn mess, aren’t I?”

“No.” Sylar said, quietly. “I see you. I see who you are. I didn’t before, not clearly. I do now.”

“You do?” Somber hazel eyes regarded Sylar’s face in the mirror.

“Yes. I do. I always expect you to hurt me because that’s what other people have always done. You’re not other people.”

“No, I’m not.”

“Stay there,” Sylar commanded. In three steps, his long legs carried him across the small room to a dresser. He opened and closed drawers and returned with a t-shirt and a pair of sweatpants. Standing behind Peter once more, he dropped the dry clothes to the floor and reached around to slide Peter’s wet jacket from his shoulders. He hung it on the doorknob. Next his fingers undid the buttons of Peter’s shirt and he could hear the man’s breathing, rhythmic like the ticking of the bedside clock. Sylar’s fingers grasped the shirt lapels, brushing bare shoulders and causing a small noise to escape Peter’s throat. He slipped the shirt off, letting it fall to the floor. He didn’t break eye contact for a second, not even to leer at Peter’s now naked torso. Peter stood motionless and stared back at him, breathing louder now. Picking up the t-shirt, Sylar scrunched the fabric in his hands and stretched the neck hole to fit over Peter’s head.

“What is this, Sylar? I can dress myself.”

“I know you can. Let me.”

Peter didn’t object further. He lifted his arms into the sleeves and Sylar smoothed the shirt down over his torso. Sylar wanted to let his hands linger, to feel. He restrained himself from any unnecessary touching. Reaching around Peter’s waist, he unsnapped his jeans and pulled down the zipper. Peter watched him in the mirror and Sylar watched Peter. He pushed the jeans down over Peter’s hips and bent to help Peter pull his legs free and peel off his sodden socks. Still crouching, Sylar grabbed the sweatpants he’d dropped to the floor and handed them to Peter, who put them on like everyone else, one leg at a time.

Now fully clothed except for his bare feet, Peter waited in quiet stillness, breathing normally again. Sylar looped his arm across Peter’s chest and pulled him close. He liked what he saw in the mirror; they looked good molded against one another like a single being made of light and darkness. His mouth was near Peter’s ear, his nose buried in Peter’s soft, damp hair. He inhaled Peter’s scent, smelling the wet leather of the jacket he’d been wearing and something else, nameless and indescribable, unique to Peter.

“Do you trust me, Peter?” he whispered.

“I just let you undress me, Sylar. Yeah, I trust you.”

They locked eyes again in the mirror. Tilting his head down, Sylar touched his lips to the warm skin of Peter’s neck.  “I trust you, too,” he said. Relinquishing his hold on Peter might have been his greatest act of self-control ever. “You want my help with the carnival? I want to help.”

***


End file.
